ought very weak-minded, and everyone around
her gradually came to look upon her with the mild contempt with which
her relations regarded her; even little Jeanne, perceiving with the
quickness of a child how her parents treated her aunt, never ran to kiss
her or thought of performing any little services for her. No one ever
went to her room, and Rosalie, the maid, alone seemed to know where it
was situated. If anyone wanted to speak to her a servant was sent to
find her, and if she could not be found no one troubled about her, no
one thought of her, no one would ever have dreamt of saying:

"Dear me! I have not seen Lison this morning."

When she came down to breakfast of a morning, little Jeanne went and
held up her face for a kiss, and that was the only greeting she
received. She had no position in the house and seemed destined never to
be understood even by her relations, never able to gain their love or
confidence, and when she died she would leave no empty chair, no sense
of loss behind her.

When anyone said "Aunt Lison" the words caused no more feeling of
affection in anyone's heart than if the coffee pot or sugar basin had
been mentioned. She always walked with little, quick, noiseless steps,
never making any noise, never stumbling against anything, and her hands
seemed to be made of velvet, so light and delicate was their handling
of anything she touched.

Lison arrived at the chateau about the middle of July, quite upset by
the idea of the marriage; she brought a great many presents which did
not receive much attention as she was the giver, and the day after her
arrival no one noticed she was there. She could not take her eyes off
the sweethearts, and busied herself about the trousseau with a strange
energy, a feverish excitement, working in her room, where no one came to
see her, like a common seamstress. She was always showing the baroness
some handkerchiefs she had hemmed, or some towels on which she had
embroidered the monogram, and asking:

"Do you like that, Adelaide?"

The baroness would carelessly look at the work and answer:

"Don't take so much trouble over it, my dear Lison."

About the end of the month, after a day of sultry heat, the moon rose in
one of those warm, clear nights which seem to draw forth all the hidden
poetry of the soul. The soft breeze fluttered the hangings of the quiet
drawing-room, and the shaded lamp cast a ring of soft light on the table
where the baroness and her hus